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“SIRE, a fresh dispatch.”
“Whence?”
“From Tomsk?”
“Is the wire cut beyond that city?”
“Yes, sire, since yesterday.”
“Telegraph hourly to Tomsk, General, and keep me informed of all
that occurs.”
“Sire, it shall be done,” answered General Kissoff.
These words were exchanged about two hours after midnight, at the moment
when the fete given at the New Palace was at the height of its splendor.
During the whole evening the bands of the Preobra-jensky and Paulowsky
regiments had played without cessation polkas, mazurkas, schottisches, and
waltzes from among the choicest of their repertoires. Innumerable couples of
dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the palace, which stood at a
few paces only from the “old house of stones”—in former days
the scene of so many terrible dramas, the echoes of whose walls were this night
awakened by the gay strains of the musicians.
The grand-chamberlain of the court, was, besides, well seconded in his
arduous and delicate duties. The grand-dukes and their aides-de-camp, the
chamberlains-in-waiting and other officers of the palace, presided personally
in the arrangement of the dances. The grand duchesses, covered with diamonds,
the ladies-in-waiting in their most exquisite costumes, set the example to the
wives of the military and civil dignitaries of the ancient “city of white
stone.” When, therefore, the signal for the “polonaise”
resounded through the saloons, and the guests of all ranks took part in that
measured promenade, which on occasions of this kind has all the importance of a
national dance, the mingled costumes, the sweeping robes adorned with lace, and
uniforms covered with orders, presented a scene of dazzling splendor, lighted
by hundreds of lusters multiplied tenfold by the numerous mirrors adorning the
walls.
The grand saloon, the finest of all those contained in the New Palace,
formed to this procession of exalted personages and splendidly dressed women a
frame worthy of the magnificence they displayed. The rich ceiling, with its
gilding already softened by the touch of time, appeared as if glittering with
stars. The embroidered drapery of the curtains and doors, falling in gorgeous
folds, assumed rich and varied hues, broken by the shadows of the heavy masses
of damask.
Through the panes of the vast semicircular bay-windows the light, with
which the saloons were filled, shone forth with the brilliancy of a
conflagration, vividly illuminating the gloom in which for some hours the
palace had been shrouded. The attention of those of the guests not taking part
in the dancing was attracted by the contrast. Resting in the recesses of the
windows, they could discern, standing out dimly in the darkness, the vague
outlines of the countless towers, domes, and spires which adorn the ancient
city. Below the sculptured balconies were visible numerous sentries, pacing
silently up and down, their rifles carried horizontally on the shoulder, and
the spikes of their helmets glittering like flames in the glare of light issuing
from the palace. The steps also of the patrols could be heard beating time on
the stones beneath with even more regularity than the feet of the dancers on
the floor of the saloon. From time to time the watchword was repeated from post
to post, and occasionally the notes of a trumpet, mingling with the strains of
the orchestra, penetrated into their midst. Still farther down, in front of the
facade, dark masses obscured the rays of light which proceeded from the windows
of the New Palace. These were boats descending the course of a river, whose
waters, faintly illumined by a few lamps, washed the lower portion of the
terraces.
The principal personage who has been mentioned, the giver of the fete,
and to whom General Kissoff had been speaking in that tone of respect with
which sovereigns alone are usually addressed, wore the simple uniform of an
officer of chasseurs of the guard. This was not affectation on his part, but
the custom of a man who cared little for dress, his contrasting strongly with
the gorgeous costumes amid which he moved, encircled by his escort of
Georgians, Cossacks, and Circassians—a brilliant band, splendidly clad in
the glittering uniforms of the Caucasus.
This personage, of lofty stature, affable demeanor, and physiognomy
calm, though bearing traces of anxiety, moved from group to group, seldom
speaking, and appearing to pay but little attention either to the merriment of
the younger guests or the graver remarks of the exalted dignitaries or members
of the diplomatic corps who represented at the Russian court the principal
governments of Europe. Two or three of these astute
politicians—physiognomists by virtue of their profession— failed
not to detect on the countenance of their host symptoms of disquietude, the
source of which eluded their penetration; but none ventured to interrogate him
on the subject.
It was evidently the intention of the officer of chasseurs that his own
anxieties should in no way cast a shade over the festivities; and, as he was a
personage whom almost the population of a world in itself was wont to obey, the
gayety of the ball was not for a moment checked.
Nevertheless, General Kissoff waited until the officer to whom he had
just communicated the dispatch forwarded from Tomsk should give him permission
to withdraw; but the latter still remained silent. He had taken the telegram,
he had read it carefully, and his visage became even more clouded than before. Involuntarily
he sought the hilt of his sword, and then passed his hand for an instant before
his eyes, as though, dazzled by the brilliancy of the light, he wished to shade
them, the better to see into the recesses of his own mind.
“We are, then,” he continued, after having drawn General
Kissoff aside towards a window, “since yesterday without intelligence
from the Grand Duke?”
“Without any, sire; and it is to be feared that in a short time
dispatches will no longer cross the Siberian frontier.”
“But have not the troops of the provinces of Amoor and Irkutsk, as
those also of the Trans-Balkan territory, received orders to march immediately
upon Irkutsk?”
“The orders were transmitted by the last telegram we were able to
send beyond Lake Baikal.”
“And the governments of Yeniseisk, Omsk, Semipolatinsk, and
Tobolsk—are we still in direct communication with them as before the
insurrection?”
“Yes, sire; our dispatches have reached them, and we are assured
at the present moment that the Tartars have not advanced beyond the Irtish and
the Obi.”
“And the traitor Ivan Ogareff, are there no tidings of him?”
“None,” replied General Kissoff. “The head of the
police cannot state whether or not he has crossed the frontier.”
“Let a description of him be immediately dispatched to
Nijni-Novgorod, Perm, Ekaterenburg, Kasirnov, Tioumen, Ishim, Omsk, Tomsk, and
to all the telegraphic stations with which communication is yet open.”
“Your majesty’s orders shall be instantly carried
out.”
“You will observe the strictest silence as to this.”
The General, having made a sign of respectful assent, bowing low,
mingled with the crowd, and finally left the apartments without his departure
being remarked.
The officer remained absorbed in thought for a few moments, when,
recovering himself, he went among the various groups in the saloon, his
countenance reassuming that calm aspect which had for an instant been
disturbed.
Nevertheless, the important occurrence which had occasioned these
rapidly exchanged words was not so unknown as the officer of the chasseurs of
the guard and General Kissoff had possibly supposed. It was not spoken of
officially, it is true, nor even officiously, since tongues were not free; but
a few exalted personages had been informed, more or less exactly, of the events
which had taken place beyond the frontier. At any rate, that which was only
slightly known, that which was not matter of conversation even between members
of the corps diplomatique, two guests, distinguished by no uniform, no
decoration, at this reception in the New Palace, discussed in a low voice, and
with apparently very correct information.
By what means, by the exercise of what acuteness had these two ordinary
mortals ascertained that which so many persons of the highest rank and
importance scarcely even suspected? It is impossible to say. Had they the gifts
of foreknowledge and foresight? Did they possess a supplementary sense, which
enabled them to see beyond that limited horizon which bounds all human gaze? Had
they obtained a peculiar power of divining the most secret events? Was it owing
to the habit, now become a second nature, of living on information, that their
mental constitution had thus become really transformed? It was difficult to
escape from this conclusion.
Of these two men, the one was English, the other French; both were tall
and thin, but the latter was sallow as are the southern Provencals, while the
former was ruddy like a Lancashire gentleman. The Anglo-Norman, formal, cold,
grave, parsimonious of gestures and words, appeared only to speak or
gesticulate under the influence of a spring operating at regular intervals. The
Gaul, on the contrary, lively and petulant, expressed himself with lips, eyes,
hands, all at once, having twenty different ways of explaining his thoughts,
whereas his interlocutor seemed to have only one, immutably stereotyped on his
brain.
The strong contrast they presented would at once have struck the most
superficial observer; but a physiognomist, regarding them closely, would have
defined their particular characteristics by saying, that if the Frenchman was
“all eyes,” the Englishman was “all ears.”
In fact, the visual apparatus of the one had been singularly perfected
by practice. The sensibility of its retina must have been as instantaneous as
that of those conjurors who recognize a card merely by a rapid movement in
cutting the pack or by the arrangement only of marks invisible to others. The
Frenchman indeed possessed in the highest degree what may be called “the
memory of the eye.”
The Englishman, on the contrary, appeared especially organized to listen
and to hear. When his aural apparatus had been once struck by the sound of a
voice he could not forget it, and after ten or even twenty years he would have
recognized it among a thousand. His ears, to be sure, had not the power of
moving as freely as those of animals who are provided with large auditory
flaps; but, since scientific men know that human ears possess, in fact, a very
limited power of movement, we should not be far wrong in affirming that those
of the said Englishman became erect, and turned in all directions while
endeavoring to gather in the sounds, in a manner apparent only to the
naturalist. It must be observed that this perfection of sight and hearing was
of wonderful assistance to these two men in their vocation, for the Englishman
acted as correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, and the Frenchman, as correspondent
of what newspaper, or of what newspapers, he did not say; and when asked, he
replied in a jocular manner that he corresponded with “his cousin
Madeleine.” This Frenchman, however, neath his careless surface, was
wonderfully shrewd and sagacious. Even while speaking at random, perhaps the
better to hide his desire to learn, he never forgot himself. His loquacity even
helped him to conceal his thoughts, and he was perhaps even more discreet than
his confrere of the Daily Telegraph. Both were present at this fete given at
the New Palace on the night of the 15th of July in their character of
reporters.
It is needless to say that these two men were devoted to their mission
in the world—that they delighted to throw themselves in the track of the
most unexpected intelligence—that nothing terrified or discouraged them
from succeeding—that they possessed the imperturbable sang froid and the
genuine intrepidity of men of their calling. Enthusiastic jockeys in this
steeplechase, this hunt after information, they leaped hedges, crossed rivers,
sprang over fences, with the ardor of pure-blooded racers, who will run
“a good first” or die!
Their journals did not restrict them with regard to money— the
surest, the most rapid, the most perfect element of information known to this
day. It must also be added, to their honor, that neither the one nor the other
ever looked over or listened at the walls of private life, and that they only
exercised their vocation when political or social interests were at stake. In a
word, they made what has been for some years called “the great political
and military reports.”
It will be seen, in following them, that they had generally an
independent mode of viewing events, and, above all, their consequences, each
having his own way of observing and appreciating.
The French correspondent was named Alcide Jolivet. Harry Blount was the
name of the Englishman. They had just met for the first time at this fete in
the New Palace, of which they had been ordered to give an account in their
papers. The dissimilarity of their characters, added to a certain amount of
jealousy, which generally exists between rivals in the same calling, might have
rendered them but little sympathetic. However, they did not avoid each other,
but endeavored rather to exchange with each other the chat of the day. They
were sportsmen, after all, hunting on the same ground. That which one missed
might be advantageously secured by the other, and it was to their interest to
meet and converse.
This evening they were both on the look out; they felt, in fact, that
there was something in the air.
“Even should it be only a wildgoose chase,” said Alcide
Jolivet to himself, “it may be worth powder and shot.”
The two correspondents therefore began by cautiously sounding each
other.
“Really, my dear sir, this little fete is charming!” said
Alcide Jolivet pleasantly, thinking himself obliged to begin the conversation
with this eminently French phrase.
“I have telegraphed already, ‘splendid!’” replied
Harry Blount calmly, employing the word specially devoted to expressing
admiration by all subjects of the United Kingdom.
“Nevertheless,” added Alcide Jolivet, “I felt
compelled to remark to my cousin—”
“Your cousin?” repeated Harry Blount in a tone of surprise,
interrupting his brother of the pen.
“Yes,” returned Alcide Jolivet, “my cousin Madeleine. It
is with her that I correspond, and she likes to be quickly and well informed,
does my cousin. I therefore remarked to her that, during this fete, a sort of
cloud had appeared to overshadow the sovereign’s brow.”
“To me, it seemed radiant,” replied Harry Blount, who
perhaps, wished to conceal his real opinion on this topic.
“And, naturally, you made it ‘radiant,’ in the columns
of the Daily Telegraph.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you remember, Mr. Blount, what occurred at Zakret in
1812?”
“I remember it as well as if I had been there, sir,” replied
the English correspondent.
“Then,” continued Alcide Jolivet, “you know that, in
the middle of a fete given in his honor, it was announced to the Emperor
Alexander that Napoleon had just crossed the Niemen with the vanguard of the
French army. Nevertheless the Emperor did not leave the fete, and
notwithstanding the extreme gravity of intelligence which might cost him his
empire, he did not allow himself to show more uneasiness.”
“Than our host exhibited when General Kissoff informed him that
the telegraphic wires had just been cut between the frontier and the government
of Irkutsk.”
“Ah! you are aware of that?”
“I am!”
“As regards myself, it would be difficult to avoid knowing it,
since my last telegram reached Udinsk,” observed Alcide Jolivet, with
some satisfaction.
“And mine only as far as Krasnoiarsk,” answered Harry
Blount, in a no less satisfied tone.
“Then you know also that orders have been sent to the troops of
Nikolaevsk?”
“I do, sir; and at the same time a telegram was sent to the
Cossacks of the government of Tobolsk to concentrate their forces.”
“Nothing can be more true, Mr. Blount; I was equally well
acquainted with these measures, and you may be sure that my dear cousin shall
know of them to-morrow.”
“Exactly as the readers of the Daily Telegraph shall know it also,
M. Jolivet.”
“Well, when one sees all that is going on. . . .”
“And when one hears all that is said. . . .”
“An interesting campaign to follow, Mr. Blount.”
“I shall follow it, M. Jolivet!”
“Then it is possible that we shall find ourselves on ground less
safe, perhaps, than the floor of this ball-room.”
“Less safe, certainly, but—”
“But much less slippery,” added Alcide Jolivet, holding up
his companion, just as the latter, drawing back, was about to lose his
equilibrium.
Thereupon the two correspondents separated, pleased that the one had not
stolen a march on the other.
At that moment the doors of the rooms adjoining the great reception
saloon were thrown open, disclosing to view several immense tables beautifully
laid out, and groaning under a profusion of valuable china and gold plate. On
the central table, reserved for the princes, princesses, and members of the
corps diplomatique, glittered an epergne of inestimable price, brought from
London, and around this chef-d’oeuvre of chased gold reflected under the
light of the lusters a thousand pieces of most beautiful service from the manufactories
of Sevres.
The guests of the New Palace immediately began to stream towards the
supper-rooms.
At that moment. General Kissoff, who had just re-entered, quickly
approached the officer of chasseurs.
“Well?” asked the latter abruptly, as he had done the former
time.
“Telegrams pass Tomsk no longer, sire.”
“A courier this moment!”
The officer left the hall and entered a large antechamber adjoining. It
was a cabinet with plain oak furniture, situated in an angle of the New Palace.
Several pictures, amongst others some by Horace Vernet, hung on the wall.
The officer hastily opened a window, as if he felt the want of air, and
stepped out on a balcony to breathe the pure atmosphere of a lovely July night.
Beneath his eyes, bathed in moonlight, lay a fortified inclosure, from which
rose two cathedrals, three palaces, and an arsenal. Around this inclosure could
be seen three distinct towns: Kitai-Gorod, Beloi-Gorod,
Zemlianai-Gorod—European, Tartar, and Chinese quarters of great extent,
commanded by towers, belfries, minarets, and the cupolas of three hundred
churches, with green domes, surmounted by the silver cross. A little winding
river, here and there reflected the rays of the moon.
This river was the Moskowa; the town Moscow; the fortified inclosure the
Kremlin; and the officer of chasseurs of the guard, who, with folded arms and
thoughtful brow, was listening dreamily to the sounds floating from the New
Palace over the old Muscovite city, was the Czar.
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